more. ‘Oh, Miss July, I have a plan that means we can be together. A plan,’ he went on, ‘so I might have you. A scheme that my father will have no quarrel with. Indeed, he will rejoice in it. He will thank God. I believe . . . I truly believe that my father will thank the Almighty for delivering his son from this temptation.’
Robert’s blue eyes were large as moons. For a long moment they stared down upon July—until, that is, he leaned forward to kiss her. His lips brushed so gently against July’s mouth that she became entranced by his sudden tenderness. She could think of no response to him. But the missus calling, ‘Marguerite, Marguerite,’ very close, soon ended July’s quandary. For she and the overseer sprang apart like beans upon a fire. And he, dropping to crouch low as a sneak-thief, began whispering, ‘Soon, Miss July, soon.’
He slipped away and out of all sight just as the missus rounded the corner to find July alone. ‘Oh, there you are, Marguerite,’ said the missus. July, now searching for the needlework she had thrown into the bush, began to babble to her missus about the breeze snatching the undergarments away from her, and how they flapped like some monstrous bird as they flew across the garden.
But Caroline Mortimer hushed her by waving her arms in front of July’s face. ‘Not now, not now, not now. No, no, no, no, no, there is too much to do,’ her missus squealed. ‘Oh, Marguerite, there is just so much to do.’ Then, with the aid of her fleshy fingers, each of those splayed digits struck in turn, the missus commenced to list the tasks that must be done. There was pink satin silk that must be found, blond needle lace that must be sent for, slippers that must be trimmed with ribbon, a gown with fashionable bishop sleeves that must be made. ‘And where are those yellow kid gloves?’ The pig must be slaughtered, all the chickens too, a cake must be baked, ‘But not by Molly’, cards must be printed, candles must be bought . . .
It was only July’s quizzical look that made her missus stop between breaths to ask, ‘What, have you not understood?’ Then, sighing hard, for the missus was quite winded with all this activity on such a hot day, she carried on, ‘Oh, I have not said.’ She giggled. ‘I have not told you.’ She laid her hand upon July’s arm. ‘I have such news, Marguerite. I accepted him just a minute ago.’ And she smiled broad, as she said, ‘I am to be married. I am to be married to Robert Goodwin.’
PART 4
CHAPTER 26
SOMEWHERE, READER, THERE IS a painting, a portrait rendered in oils upon an oblong canvas (perhaps an arm’s span in width) entitled, Mr and Mrs Goodwin. This likeness was commissioned by the newly married Caroline Goodwin from a renowned artist who did reside within the town of Falmouth. The painter—a Mr Francis Bear—produced, in his evidently short life, many portraits of Jamaican planters and their families; indeed, at one time, it was quite fashionable to have a Bear in your great house.
The sitters in this portrait sat for several weeks within the long room at Amity making no movement nor sound, as requested by the artist, whilst steadily perspiring their finest clothes several shades darker. But what became of this portrait I do not know. It was lost or stolen or perhaps even nibbled to tatting by some of the many ravenous creatures that live here upon this Caribbean island. However, if you should perchance alight upon this portrait, Mr and Mrs Goodwin, please be sure to make a careful study of it—for hidden close within its artifice lies the next piece of my tale.
Standing tall in the foreground of this splendid picture you will find Robert Goodwin. His manner is casual, one leg crossed in front of the other, while he leans his elbow upon the chair back in front of him. He wears a light linen jacket with a waistcoat of cream silk embellished with a tracery of green floral stitching. There is no hat upon his head, and although his curling hair and bristling whiskers confer the distinction of a gentleman upon him, they also cause him to look a good deal older than his years.
Not yet married a full year, his countenance appears serene enough. But, come, look closer still, for the beam within his blue